


A Series of Ill-Conceived Experiments

by backinblack (ginandironic)



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-06-24
Updated: 2010-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-10 06:25:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginandironic/pseuds/backinblack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock's a mystery, and Jim's the cat curiosity killed.  Vulcan biology is <i>weird</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the product of sleep-deprived conversations with Nepenthene; blame everything on her. I realize I've bastardized Vulcan physiology probably to the point of satire, but that's how I get my kicks.

Jim waited until the shuttle had safely docked and his first officer was standing in front of him before canceling the red alert. Ensigns hurried to unload equipment and escort refugees off of the hangar deck, and McCoy was already advancing on Spock with a tricorder. Medical support staff loaded up Mallory onto a gurney and wheeled him away.

Spock knew better than to try and dissuade Bones from his work. He was like a mosquito; if you swatted him away, he'd just come back, buzzing harder. Jim waited until Bones pronounced Spock fit with a grunt and something terse about more tests later, and then his CMO scurried off to harass the refugees in the sanctity of sickbay. Kaplan trailed after him, uninjured arm cradling the other in its sling.

Jim, Spock, and a handful of ensigns dragging crates were the only ones left. Spock didn't look so great. He was wan, in a way that made his usual complexion seem downright tawny, and a smear of dark dirt bisected the white of his face like a scar.

"That's the last time I send you down to the surface," Jim said lightly. "This much excitement and the crew's going to become complacent."

"Perhaps I am better suited to remaining on the bridge, as it appears I am ineffective in other scenarios."

He was dead serious. Concerned, Jim dropped the casual façade and stepped closed. "Don't be ridiculous, you did great. You got your team off the planet without anyone succumbing to an untimely death. That's a win, in my book." He purposefully did not mention that Spock had come back with three less refugees than they'd anticipated.

Spock said nothing. He shifted his weight and clasped his hands behind his back, looking like a textbook-perfect illustration of at ease. "Would you prefer to debrief me now, or at a more convenient time?"

"You worked a double shift before spending twelve hours stranded on a planet in the middle of civil war. I'm pretty sure you can take a nap first."

"I am perfectly capable of seeing to my duties. Vulcans function successfully on very little sleep."

Jim shrugged. It was no use pushing when Spock got this way; Jim could order him to his quarters, and he'd probably sit around _not_ sleeping just to be stubborn. Also, Jim was the least convincing person in the galaxy to say anything like 'just because you _can_ doesn't mean you _should_.' "Fine, fine. Meet me in my quarters at 1930. Bring your chess set."

He didn't hang around long enough to hear the protest Spock likely had about illogically mixing duty and leisure.

\--

Spock requested entry to his quarters at exactly 1930. He was carrying his chess set, although the lack of it wouldn't have deterred Jim in the slightest. He had his own in case Spock had ignored his request, and he was almost to the point of not taking Spock's bull-headedness personally.

They set up the board in silence, and Jim grabbed drinks from the food synthesizer. Coffee for himself, and some disgusting tea Spock liked, programmed to be served extra-hot. His fingerprints nearly burned off in the short trip from the synthesizer to the table. Spock picked up the tea with no comment and started drinking it as easily as Jim would tepid water.

Jim generously let Spock play white. He was expecting their game to go on in its usual silence (only borderline awkward, now; he counted this as progress), but Spock waited for Jim to make his answering move, and then immediately set in on the debriefing.

"I have already started a report on the events of Aja V. I estimate its completion in one point six hours, provided I am left uninterrupted--"

"Who needs a report when you're here?" He _would_ read the report, but Spock's overly technical and precise language could turn a horror story into bone dry boring. It was a gift.

Spock put off responding in favor of moving a piece. A visit to the sonic shower and a change of clothes had removed the grime, but nothing save sleep and time would erase the look in his eyes. Jim idly wondered how much of an asshole it would make him if he suggested therapy.

"I am unsure as to how many of my communications were received, but I assume you were aware of the shuttle malfunction upon arrival to the planet's surface?"

Jim nodded. What information they'd received had been sparse; somebody down there really hadn't wanted anything getting in or out, but Spock's tenacious self had found a way to rig the communicator to bypass the subspace block. No one was surprised. No one was surprised at his single-handedly managing to fix the shuttle and pilot it back to the Enterprise, either. The refugees and the tricoders filled with data on the planet were unexpected bonuses.

"It became clear that the landing party was in jeopardy, and that our priorities were reestablishing communications and fixing the shuttle. We established a security perimeter and conducted tests to the shuttle. It was determined that the engine and all component parts were intact. There was no mechanical reason for us to be grounded."

Jim took a sip of his coffee and tried to look interested. He didn't particularly care about the whys and hows. He didn't particularly care about the debriefing, either; Spock was the one concerned with documenting every mission and crossing all the Ts, and McCoy was the de facto psychologist on the ship. His interest was in Spock, and the fact that they'd sustained casualties for the first time since Nero. The fact that the dead were refugees from Aja V and not crew didn't matter. Dead was dead. And if the carefully controlled look on Spock's face was any indication, guilt was guilt.

"It was magnetic distortion, some sort of device. Scotty thought it was EMP at first, but it didn't gel."

"I initially made the same assumption, but many instruments remained unaffected. The Ajan refugees informed me that the Callax army had devised a selective magnetic interference device as a terrorist tactic."

"And you flew right in the middle of it."

It was one hell of a clusterfuck to land in: two warring factions, one of them doing its best to blow the other out of existence over religious land rights. Jim had stopped by sickbay to check on Mallory and try to welcome the Ajans onto the Enterprise. They'd been overflowing with gratitude, not to mention desperate for Federation intervention. Unfortunately, Jim didn't have the clearance to declare war on half the inhabitants of a planet just because he felt like it, so it was off to Starfleet, hoping the presence of the Ajans was enough of a tangible tearjerker to garner official backing.

"Approximately five hours after landing on Aja V, Mallory discovered ten Ajans in a nearby structure."

"When did ten turn into seven?"

Spock was Vulcan enough not to visibly react. In all probability, the question didn't bother him, which was good, because Jim wasn't good at hand-holding, and Spock would rather chew his own hand off than be placated. Metaphorically. "Shortly before restoring power to the shuttle. I sent the Enterprise another message, containing information on the refugees and instructing sickbay to stand by to receive them." The lift of his eyebrow questioned if they'd gotten said message, and Jim nodded to confirm that they had.

Jim realized he should probably start paying attention to the damn game when Spock took his bishop. There was something to the infamous Vulcan endurance after all. Jim couldn't even guess how he would be doing under the same conditions.

"You gonna drink your tea?" Jim asked when Spock seemed reluctant to continue. "I can warm it up for you, if it's only boiling hot now."

"The temperature is sufficient." He dutifully sipped his tea again, the plain white regulation china obscuring the bottom half of his face. His attention was on the chess board, no doubt thinking twenty moves ahead.

Jim was naturally good at chess, but when the elder Spock told him to start inviting his own first to play, he got the feeling the other Kirk's rating was significantly higher than his own (not to mention _actually tested_). And why shouldn't it be; Jim had spent the greater part of his life shirking responsibility and wasting his potential. It took up a surprising amount of time and energy. Spock was ranked Grandmaster. It was like playing the computer, only Jim couldn't rig Spock to let him win once in a while.

"I don't know how you drink that stuff," Jim went on, trying for distraction and knowing it was ultimately futile. "Were you born without taste buds? Is it a Vulcan thing?"

"Vulcans have a greater sensitivity to the nuances of flavor than humans."

No shit. Kirk shrugged and finished off his coffee in two long swallows. "You want anything else? I'm going to get more coffee."

"I do not require anything further."

He punched in the code for more coffee and contemplated a sandwich, and then realized it wouldn't be the best idea to stuff his face while Spock told him about narrowly escaping death. Food after, maybe. It was possible Spock might deign to eat with Kirk in his quarters, if he asked at the right moment.

He sat down and countered Spock's last move with one that might give him a chance in hell at capturing something. Might not win, but he wasn't going down without a tidy collection of white pieces at his elbow.

Spock's lips pursed at his move, but Jim couldn't tell what it meant. He contented himself with his coffee and thought about what he was going to say to Starfleet to break them in. With his luck, he'd have to go up in front of Komack. The universe wouldn't be kind enough to give him Pike. He hoped Komack's general and (mostly) irrational dislike for him didn't extend to spiting a race of people simply because he could.

"After I sent the Enterprise an update on the situation, I was in the process of triaging the injured Ajans when Callax snipers attacked from the tree line. Mallory was injured, and three of the Ajans perished." His tone was mechanical, flat; there would have been more interest in a discussion of the warp drives, even if this _was_ Spock.

"Spock," Jim tried, and Spock's hand held perfectly still, holding the white piece above the board. "It wasn't your fault."

He was worried he stepped too far too soon -- Jim had no practical skills whatsoever in helping half-Vulcans in traumatic situations. He was betting on too much being better than nothing at all.

"Fault is irrelevant. I was charged, however unexpectedly, with the protection of ten individuals. I was able to rescue all but three. Seventy percent is... an unfortunate outcome."

"If it -- helps, I think you did better than anyone on the ship would have in your situation. I know I wouldn't have managed to fix the shuttle, let alone everything else."

"I do not believe that to be true, Captain." He gently placed his knight into position, efficiently cutting off one of the potential traps Jim was going to set. Not that it mattered. The game was Spock's as soon as he'd sat down at the table. Jim's head just wasn't in it.

"What, you're saying _I_ would have somehow managed to regain communications, jerry rig the shuttle's engines to work without computer nav -- which, by the way, I have minimal training for, since I'm not a damn engineer -- and somehow saved the lives of myself and nine others? _How_, by pulling superpowers out of my ass?"

The silence that echoed was another layer of awkward on top of a pile of uncomfortable. Strange enough to be sitting around in his quarters, still in uniform, sharing space with someone he barely knew, but had an inexplicable communion with. Stranger, still, to be verbally berating someone who'd just gone through hell, and who now had to tell him about it. Him. Bones had a better bedside manner than he did, and he made children _cry_.

The chess had been a monumentally bad idea. Kirk was going to _imply_ the other Spock take his advice and shove it somewhere painful when he got the chance. Maybe the next time Jim wanted to get to know his XO, he could try water boarding, or those Godawful camaraderie exercises from the Academy. Camping. Spock would absolutely love camping, if by love you meant abhor with a terrifying intensity.

"Sorry," Jim said into the awkward void.

"Do not be. I simply meant that you have an unparalleled aptitude for finding your way out of impossible situations unscathed."

"You mean I'm lucky," Jim said.

"No. 'Luck' does not occur 89.65 percent of the time."

"Well..." He struggled for something to say other than _really? You did the fucking math?_ "Hang around me, maybe it'll rub off."

"Perhaps."

To his surprise, he'd finished the second cup of coffee during their ten rounds of faux-pas. He stood up just for something to do. His back to Spock, he ordered some chamomile tea, mostly in deference to the hour. "Do you want anything to eat? Our game is going to last a while." He paused, letting himself half-smile where Spock couldn't see. "Unless you want to go get some sleep?"

"I have no need for food. I would not object to more tea, as I have finished mine."

"Want chamomile? I can just double the input."

"That would be -- fine."

He pressed the requisite button and two cups of steaming tea appeared in the synthesizer. The aroma was faint but a hell of a lot more pleasant than the bile Spock had been drinking. Jim mourned his coffee when he took a sip -- it was so weak it was nearly tasteless in comparison -- but two cups before sleep would give Bones a coronary if he heard about it. Which he would, from regularly hacking into Jim's personal records. He said it was because Jim couldn't be trusted to check on saturated fat content, but Jim thought Bones really needed to get laid.

Spock regarded the tea for a long moment before leaning forward and taking it up. Jim had his polished off in a few gulps; he wasn't a tea drinker, he didn't have the patience -- or whatever it was -- that let him linger over a cup until the last dregs. Spock held the cup in one hand while staring out at the board, looking hypnotized.

"Head not in the game?" Jim asked.

Spock looked up, eyes settling on Jim. He set the cup down and straightened. "It seems the events of late have affected my concentration in ways I had not anticipated." For Spock, that was admitting defeat.

"You want me to let you go?" Jim tried.

"I believe I am capable of finishing our game." As if to prove a point, he firmly moved a knight.

"You're still kicking my ass," Jim pointed out wryly. "Even if you are _adversely affected_. I think I'd only have a chance at winning if you were drunk."

"Vulcans --"

"I know, you can't get drunk. I took Xenobiology 101."

"It is your move, Jim."

Jim didn't have to be a self-taught expert in Spock's little quirks to read that one. He regarded the board, its pathetic progression that had him trapped into a corner at every conceivable opportunity, and bemoaned having to work with someone smarter than him. He envied that other Jim Kirk, with his years of practice and finely honed skill to rely on, not just a chess manual and late-night rounds with the computer.

When he finally made his move, nudging a bishop toward the center in a bid of clear desperation, Spock was staring sightlessly at the board again. His eyes were slits, black and unreadable in the dim lighting of Jim's quarters.

"Spock?" he tried, a little worried he was going to fall asleep in his chair.

Instead of an answer, a jarring noise filled the silence, some sort of deep rumble from Spock's chest. Whatever it was didn't last long; Spock leaned forward, and it would have been like nothing had happened if he hadn't coughed quietly into his hand and given the weirdness away. Jim's blood was seriously up.

"Are you sick?" He wondered about the planet's atmosphere; something foreign, uncatalogued, in Spock's lungs. McCoy had waved him off, but he'd said to come back later for tests, which could mean any number of things that _weren't_ Bones' hypo-happy paranoia. "Do you need to go to sickbay?"

Spock stood up from his chair, and Jim matched his movement, not in the mood for evasion. "I assure you, Captain, I am well."

"Bullshit. You sounded like you have pneumonia, and that's not well, not even for Vulcans." His uncle had a barn dog that used to run around on their property, and it contracted pneumonia somehow. It made the same freaky noise until it up and died and they buried it in the back yard, far away from the crops, and the memory wasn't helping Jim feel sanguine about the matter. He stepped forward, and Spock skirted around him as skillfully as any damn ballerina, arms clasped behind his back. "I'm taking you to Bones."

"It is not necessary. I am in good health, and I am due to see Dr McCoy before next Alpha shift in any case."

"Spock, be reasonable. You could have picked up something nasty on the planet. What's the harm in getting it checked out?"

"The harm is disturbing Dr McCoy while he attends to patients that are actually ill," Spock said curtly.

He had a point there. If Spock turned out to have a stupid head cold, and Bones took precious seconds away from fretting over someone in a worse state, Bones might bite his head off.

"You swear you're seeing Bones before next shift?"

"There is no need to make a vow, as I am planning to go of my own accord."

"Humor me." Jim folded his arms over his chest. Spock didn't sigh or anything so obvious, but his head tilted in a way that conveyed exasperation almost as well.

"Very well. I swear to you, I will seek out Dr McCoy before the start of Alpha shift."

"Good." He glanced back to their abandoned game. "I guess we'll finish it another night, huh?"

"If you wish."

Jim blinked under Spock's silent, expectant scrutiny. "You're, uh, dismissed, in case it wasn't clear."

"Thank you, Captain."

He turned on his heel and headed to the door, waiting for it to open, although he could have just as easily left through their shared bathroom. Spock had one foot out in the hallway when something embarrassingly unstoppable bubbled up in Jim's throat. "Spock."

Spock stepped back, putting a hand against the door sensor so they wouldn't swish closed again. His body was a ramrod, a straight line that went from the floor to almost the ceiling.

"Seriously. It wasn't your fault."

A curt nod and he was gone, but Jim thought he saw something in his expression soften. Then again, he could have been hallucinating. It seemed the more likely scenario.

Alone, Jim collected their cups, Spock's still half-full of warm tea. He still felt mentally wired, but either the stress of the day had caught up with him, or the power of chamomile wasn't just myth, because his body was ready to sack out. After a sonic shower, even his brain had calmed down some. Jim changed into sleep clothes and made a mental note to check with Bones during lunch to make sure that Spock wasn't a lying liar who lied. Or that he was going to die from some sort of infection from a nightmarish planet, whatever.

–

Bones literally shooed him out of sickbay when he stopped by to talk about Spock. Before he figured out that Jim was there on a snooping mission, though, Jim managed to find out that nothing came up on the tests, and, more importantly, Spock had done as he'd promised. He wanted to ask more questions, tell him what he'd witnessed, but Bones was elbows deep in patients and got belligerent the longer Jim tried to talk to him.

"Get the hell out of here before I have Chapel give you a prostate exam," sent Jim scurrying as fast anything could have.

Jim would have forgotten about it entirely. It would have been eclipsed by the never-ending rigor of running a starship and how much space that took up inside of his not unimpressive head, or maybe he would have chalked it up to a weird Spock thing. But fate had a way of screwing him over.

Spock was off duty for the first time in thirty hours, and the ensign Jim had manning the science station managed to crash his console so severely that it stumped the tech crew. They tried to reboot the thing entirely, but it just flashed the Starfleet insignia error message at them. Ensign Coran cowered like the fist of an angry God was going to come down and smite him where he stood. On the other hand, Jim wouldn't want to be the one responsible for fucking up Spock's station, ever, so the comparison was accurate.

He asked Uhura to page Spock to the bridge, but it turned out he was meditating and had all communication devices off. Jim decided to be a nice guy and go get him instead of sending Coran, or one of the other ensigns still living in terrified awe of Spock to do it.

"See if you can access the memory banks and restore from before the last system update," Jim suggested, then watched in amusement as all four of the tech workers immediately leaned over the console in tandem. "Sulu, you have the conn."

The turbolift let off at the hallway leading to his and Spock's personal quarters, and it was absolutely dead on that deck. Usually a few people were milling around, carrying PADDs and running routine scans on various equipment, but there was nobody. Only the low and soothing constant hum of the ship and Jim's own footfalls kept him company.

Jim walked up to Spock's doors, tried the intercomm, and got nothing. The doors were locked, although not at a high security level – which was good, because otherwise they'd be screwed if they wanted to get to Spock in an emergency. He punched in the override code to get them to open. Being Captain had its perks, although so far he'd only had occasion to go into Bones' quarters uninvited. It was for his birthday, to drop off a bottle of hard-won Romulan ale, which was the definition of both justifiable intrusion and a kick-ass best friend.

Spock's quarters were dim and cloying, the only light coming from a lamp perched on a table. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark and even longer for him to find Spock in the room, kneeling motionless on the floor.

He cleared his throat. "Spock?" He came closer, accidentally hip-checking one of Spock's low tables. The incense, or oil, whatever he was burning, it was pungent, making his eyes sting and head swim. He felt like he wanted to sneeze but couldn't, and inwardly lamented having to do this. Next time, Spock was keeping his damned communicator on, meditating or not.

Staring down at the top of Spock's head, Jim was at a loss. What little knowledge he had of Vulcans told him that touching Spock seemed like a bad idea, or at least a rude one. Maybe he should have sent Uhura. At least she wouldn't have major compunctions over touching Spock's arm.

"Spock? You, uh, awake?" Evidently meditation for Vulcans was a hell of a lot more complex than it was for humans. He looked dead asleep but for the fact that he was sitting upright. "I'm going to touch your arm. Please don't come out of this throwing punches."

He leaned down and lightly pressed his palm to Spock's shoulder, sharply bony even through a thick layer of clothing. Nothing happened. Starting to get worried, Jim kneeled next to him and made sure he was still breathing. He was, and Jim hoped it was at a normal rate, but he had no idea what was normal for Spock.

This time, he touched Spock's wrist, encircling it with his hand and hoping for some sort of a reaction. Or a pulse. Feeling a pulse would be nice, too.

Spock's breathing changed, and the hand beneath Jim's twitched. He pulled back instinctively, like Spock might really come to on the offensive, and waited for something else to happen. It didn't, so Jim risked a black eye and touched Spock's hand again, gently squeezing the knobby bones of his wrist.

Spock didn't punch him or open his eyes, but he _did_ freak Jim the hell out. Almost instantaneously, that goddamn weird noise started up from Spock's chest, a painful-sounding rumble that intensified with every breath Spock took.

"Fuck!"

Because the higher powers had a demented sense of humor when it came to Jim's life, Spock chose that moment to open his eyes.

"Captain?" His brow creased in confusion before smoothing into placidity. "Why are you in my quarters?"

"Yeah, sorry, I know you're off-duty, but -- what the hell is going on with you?"

Spock stood. He did it in one fluid motion, like an accordion unfolding, and Jim would have taken a moment to gawk if he wasn't busy being pissed off and worried in equal turns.

"I am unsure what you are referring to, Captain. Computer, lights to seventy-five percent." He didn't wait to find out what Jim had to say before turning and extinguishing his lamp. It smoked in the sudden brightness of the room.

"Unsure, right. I understand not wanting to talk to _me_ about your health, but you really need to tell Bones what's going on. He can't treat you if you pretend like nothing's wrong."

Spock was busying himself with other things around his quarters, which was remarkable because the place was as Spartan as any Jim had seen. Jim wasn't remotely a pack rat. He tossed out every trinket and useless memento almost as fast as he acquired it – habit, left over from Iowa, when he was crashing on somebody's couch more often than not, and it was inconvenient to lug a lot of shit around. But even he had some clutter to deal with; clothes he'd forgotten to send to ship's laundry, endless reports he hadn't found time to sign off on. Spock had some elaborate and likely Vulcan art hung on the wall, a few lamps, and nothing else. His bunk was perfectly made, clearly by him, because no ensign, however efficient, could tuck corners that precisely.

"Again, Captain, I am unsure of what you are referring to. I assume you believe I am ill?"

"Is it a Vulcan pride thing?" Jim asked.

"You are mistaken. I am in sound health, and I have no reason to lie."

Jim deliberately stepped forward and caught Spock's eye, refusing to blink or back down until he saw something there he could act on. He should have known better, because Spock looked back just the same as he always did; direct, expectant. Remote.

"You know what, never mind. Obviously you aren't going to tell me about it." Teeth clenched, he started for the doors, but stopped long enough to remember why he was there in the first place. "Caron crashed the science station. We need you to fix it."

"I will be on the bridge shortly."

Jim didn't bother with a reply.

\--

Jim knew himself pretty well. His temper was hard to provoke; you couldn't so much as _try_ to rile him up as trip over something explosive accidentally. When he went off he was like a flash bomb, all bluster and carnage and bad ideas and drying out in the drunk tank. He kept himself firmly in the chair while Spock worked at his station. He tried to finish paperwork, but all he could think about was a multitude of ways to get answers out of Spock. Most of them he might have even gotten away with without an official reprimand from Starfleet.

He stayed silent until the anger turned into a muddled concern, and if he was being honest, a lot of wounded pride. He'd been trying, endlessly and sincerely, to get Spock to see him as a comrade, a friend; whatever it was that the other Spock seemed so fixated on. And now it was patently obvious that Spock didn't trust Jim enough to admit that he was sick.

Eventually he found his way down to sickbay, because when in doubt, bother Bones until he got out the good booze.

"Do you _honestly_ think there's something wrong with Spock?" He was humoring Jim, because he hadn't been kicked out or threatened yet, but he kept working, so he wasn't all that convinced Jim had a leg to stand on.

Watching Bones juggle vials and hypos was strangely hypnotic. "Yes. Well, probably. Are you _sure_ nothing weird came up on his scans?"

Bones sighed, the same long-suffering exhalation he'd perfected at the Academy. "Everything about his scans are weird, Jim. He's half-Vulcan. I can barely make sense of the results, and you know what little data I have on them. They're tighter-lipped than Catholic priests."

"Isn't there any way to get more data?"

"Access to Vulcan medical archives would help, but oh, wait, that's never going to happen."

"Maybe--"

"Jim, I don't know what you want me to do, here. I've debriefed Spock after almost every mission; I've given him every test I have. If something's really the matter, it's up to him if he feels like telling me."

"Can't you just -- make something up? Say we need baseline records for New Vulcan."

"Jesus Christ." Bones slammed a drawer shut and turned around to scowl at Jim. "You're like a man obsessed. I can give him a goddamn physical, but chances are that nothing will come of it."

"But you will give him the physical?"

"If it means you'll stop stalking him and bothering me, yes, I'll give him the physical."

Jim hopped off the biobed he'd been sitting on, feeling slightly vindicated. He gave Bones a wide smile and a mock-punch to the shoulder. "Great. Come and find me once you've run the tests."

It was something to do, but Bones was right; so little was known about Vulcans. If Spock had some sort of Vulcan infection, Bones would have a hell of a time spotting it. Still, if anyone could figure out Vulcan physiology without a road map, it'd be Bones. Through sheer force of will.

\--

McCoy had a vindictive and twisted sense of humor. He paged Jim to sickbay before Spock was even done with his examination. Jim arrived in perfect time to catch Spock slipping on his uniform tunic over the reg black undershirt. If Jim hadn't been waylaid by repair order approvals on the way down, he shuddered to think what he might have walked in on.

The look Spock gave him once he was noticed was indecipherable but probably not good; silently, he tugged at his hem and walked out, vanishing as fast as an apparition. Jim waited until he distantly heard the turbolift doors chime open and then closed again (Spock's creepy hearing still managed to surprise him) before rounding on Bones.

"Gee, thanks, Bones."

"Oh, please. You deserved it."

Jim took up his customary place on the biobed, despite incessant complaints that it meant sterilizing it all over again. Bones was either used to it, or too busy feeling smug to care.

"So, what's the diagnosis, you complete asshole?" A passing nurse gave him a smile, half out of courtesy and half because Jim was grinning at her openly.

Bones didn't look up from his PADD, stylus flying, eyebrows worked together like he was acutely fixated on something. "He's got the blood pressure of a dead man, and what should be lethally low levels of oxygen in his blood. Basically, for a Vulcan, he's the picture of health."

That was essentially what Jim expected to hear, once he saw Spock and realized the prank Bones had orchestrated. It didn't do much to ease his suspicion. There had to be a reason for Spock's unidentified – whatever it was. And Jim sure as hell hadn't imagined it. Jim didn't _imagine_ things, not unless vast amounts of psychedelics were consumed, and even then he knew it was all bullshit.

He worried his bottom lip, trying to think of what McCoy could have potentially left out during a full physical. "That's... are you positively sure? Did you run a scan on his chest?"

Bones rolled his eyes at the PADD. "Yes, Jim."

"And?"

"It was clear. I told you, Spock's as fit as a fiddle." He finally set down the PADD – on a tray, as far away from Jim as possible without Bones having to exert himself. He crossed his arms and looked Jim in the eye. "Are you going to tell me what this is about, or are we going to go another thrilling round of you trying to get me to break doctor-patient confidentiality for no goddamn reason?"

Jim held up his hands in mock-surrender. He hadn't broken any rules. He'd stepped on Bones' toes, sure, and Spock wasn't too happy with him at the moment, but Spock wouldn't be too happy if a bunch of Orion strippers suddenly paraded in front of him. "Hey, I'm the Captain of this ship. He's a member of my crew. I need to make sure that he's, you know, well. Fit for duty."

"And the minute he isn't, you'll know about it." He paused, studying Jim like a particularly baffling cell culture. Jim would know what that looked like, because Bones sometimes did his own experiments and fussed over them during his off hours. Occasionally he liked to bring up the time one of the petri dishes broke and they had to quarantine the dorms. "What's this _about_, Jim?"

"Twice now, he's made this weird coughing sound around me."

"You made me run an hour's worth of tests on that infuriating man over _coughing_?"

Jim had to hold back a smile. Spock must have been in top form if Bones was up to calling him infuriating. Ordinarily he held back the insults for something special. "Not just coughing, Bones. Rattling. Deep, painful sounding rattling, the kind that usually goes along with pneumonia."

Instead of looking concerned, Bones' expression turned thoughtful. He cocked his head, grabbing for the PADD he'd set aside earlier. "Wait a minute." Jim craned over the side of the biobed to try and see what he was looking at, but the man could fly through medical logs like some sort of demon. Jim was impressed; Bones wasn't a big reader, he didn't have the time for it.

"Got something?"

"Maybe. Hold your horses."

Countless flicks of the stylus, and Jim gave up on trying to keep up with the stream of data. He swung his leg back and forth over the edge of the bed, inches above the floor. Though he didn't see one, there had to be some sort of mechanism to control the height of the bed, or everyone under five feet would need a boost.

Bones shot up to his feet like they'd gone to red alert He made for his tricorder and cross-checked something on the PADD. "I think I figured it out. I noticed it on Spock's initial scans, then again today."

Piqued, Jim went to stand next to him. "Oh?"

"Vulcans, or at least Spock, have a redundant set of vocal chords."

"Redundant vocal chords?"

Bones shot him a dark look. "They don't use them. Or need to use them; could be a hold-over from earlier times that evolution hasn't managed to eradicate yet. It's possible that something on the planet irritated them, and that's what you heard. His chest was totally clear of fluid, like I said."

Jim tried to visualize a second set of vocal chords, where they would even _go_, but anatomy wasn't his favorite class, and Xenobiology 101 didn't have much of a section on Vulcans, let alone their vocal chords.

"What the hell? _Vocal chords_?"

If it was something as simple as vocal chords, Jim boggled that Spock hadn't said anything. He suffered through Jim's hounding, Bones' no doubt undignified examinations, and could have stopped both with a simple explanation. Vulcan secrecy either ran deeper than Jim had thought, or Spock had severe trust issues.

Bones was still pouring over Spock's test results. Jim caught what must have been his chest scan, but he was too busy feeling foiled and slightly rejected to care. "It's situated in front of the larynx. Vulcans have a nictitating membrane, too. Like a cat, I guess. How funny."

Nictitating fucking membrane. He had no trouble visualizing that, and it kind of grossed him out. He wondered if Spock had fang incisors, too, or a well-hidden _tail_, something else catlike.

The thought made Jim freeze. Not that anyone around was going to notice; that end of sickbay was pretty much deserted, and Bones had wandered away, already onto his next task.

Like a cat. Jim was a certified genius, but it didn't take one to make the connection. Either Spock's random and supposedly purposeless vocal chords had been irritated, or he'd been using them to _purr_.

What the hell.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to yakbite for looking this chapter over and reassuring me that I didn't have to fire-burn it.

Leaping without looking wasn't the most attractive trait in a starship captain. Jim decided to spend some time researching his theory before accosting Spock with it; he told himself it was in the interests of science to figure out what was going on with Spock's redundant vocal chords. It was enough of a legitimate reason to let him sleep at night, but it crumbled under any real scrutiny. The Federation was occupied with helping to establish medical and educational facilities on Vulcan II, and a Vulcan's potential ability to purr frankly didn't rank on anyone's list.

There was no documentation in the archives he (and Bones, once Jim hacked into his system) had access to. Information on physiology was astoundingly minimal in general; Jim already knew most of it.

Jim wasn't about to tell Bones that he thought Spock was purring; he didn't need his CMO's head to explode, but he _did_ go back down to sickbay to see if Bones had thought of it on his own.

He hadn't. And he really didn't appreciate Jim's persistence.

"You know this makes four times in a week you've been down here, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong? I'm starting to think you have a medical fetish."

"I don't understand why you aren't geeking out and sticking him under a microscope, is all."

Jim had nicely brought him a fresh salad from the mess, the illusion of his visit, but Bones totally ignored it. There was no one in sickbay; he had no excuse not to sit down for a few minutes.

"I'm a little more concerned with figuring out how I'm going to deal with a medical emergency. We have limited Vulcan blood in storage, I have no data on surgery procedure -- even _less_ on anatomy -- and any time I bring this up to Spock he spouts some bullshit about a healing trance. Once I figure out how to _treat_ a Vulcan-human hybrid, then we can worry about recording every little idiosyncrasy."

"Gee, Bones, tell me how you really feel." He tapped the lid on the plate of salad. "You going to eat this?"

"I'm allergic to radish, Jim."

Shavings of radish were tossed throughout. "Oh." More for him, then. Shame to let an entire meal go to waste. "I knew that."

"You _should_ know that, considering how many times you've hacked into my records."

At least he didn't sound mad. Or disappointed. Disappointed was harder to take, given how much of his time Bones spent pissed off. It was his natural state of being. "About that--"

"Forget it. At this point, I tell myself it's part of your charm."

"Right." Jim picked up the salad plate and tucked it under his arm, unsure. "You want some company, or am I in your hair right now?"

"You're not eating in my sickbay, if that's what you're asking. Give me a minute and I'll come up with you to the mess hall."

It ended up being a fifteen minute wait while Bones triple-checked charts and secured someone to cover his break, and by that time Jim was picking the radish out of the salad and eating it in the corridor, carefully outside of sickbay.

He didn't have an actual checklist – that would have been tangible proof of how far into ridiculousness he'd sunk – but he did mentally strike Bones from his list of resources.

\--

The next attempt to get to the bottom of the Spock mystery was, by any account, really pathetic. Coming out and asking _hey, how about those redundant vocal chords?_ would have gone over about as well as slapping his ass on the bridge. Jim decided to start simple: recreate the conditions of the first occurrence.

Unfortunately, the conditions were anything but simple to begin with. Throwing Spock into a repeat of Aja V wasn't going to happen, ever, not if Jim had a say in things.

He invited Spock for another chess game. Spock accepted. Jim set up the chess board, wiping the slate clean from their last game -- he wanted it to last as long as possible. Maximum results. He also changed temp controls in his room so Spock wouldn't be as uncomfortable as he normally must have been around humans. He kept it on just this side of sweltering for his own benefit, because sweating bullets wasn't a fun way to kill a couple of hours, even if it was for a good cause.

It was patently evident ten minutes into the game that his attempt to make Spock comfortable was backfiring in the worst way. Instead of relaxing, Spock was as alert as he'd ever seen him, focused on their game with an intensity usually reserved for emergencies.

"Do you want some tea?" Jim asked awkwardly, after Spock had deftly captured his bishop.

"I would not be adverse to refreshment," which Jim loosely took to mean _if it's not too much trouble_.

He got up and programmed the tea – some of the scalding hot Vulcan variety for Spock, and icy-cold sweet tea for himself, because it was _hot_ in his quarters. His hand was so sweaty that the iced tea nearly slipped out of his fingers and splashed all over the floor. Nearly. He set his glass down and went back for Spock's.

"Thank you," Spock said. He took the cup with firm hands from Jim, who was doing everything in his power not to hiss in pain from burning his fingers on the damn thing.

"Not a problem." He sat down and gulped half of his tea. Spock stared at him and took a measured sip of his own.

"Captain, are you warm? The temperature is significantly higher than most humans prefer."

He waved Spock off. "No, I'm fine. Just a little thirsty." Spock didn't look convinced. "Seriously, fine. I thought you might appreciate not freezing your – not freezing, for a change."

"While I appreciate the gesture, I have become acclimated to the difference. You have not. Computer, lower temperature by ten degrees Celsius."

The relief was almost immediate. Bless state of the art starships. "Spock—"

"It is illogical to remain in such an environment when you do not have to. You are dehydrated, and also distracted, which I must point out gives me an advantage in our game."

Jim gave a smile he didn't feel. "When you put it that way."

"It is still your move, Captain."

"Jim."

Spock inclined his head. "Jim."

It was hard-won nearly every time, and that bothered Jim. He assumed that once their chess matches became habit, Spock might bother to treat him as anything other than a commanding officer. They were _friends_, and that was nearly as hard-won as Spock calling him Jim without repeated prompting.

Months ago, Jim called Ambassador Spock after he'd reached the end of his patience tether, and his admittedly limited list of ideas for friendship building activities was depleted. He was ready to never bother Spock off-duty again, upon pain of death, but decided as a last ditch effort that the ambassador might have an idea or two about how to turn Spock's robot switch off. He pulled some strings and might have appropriated a channel to the colony that was supposed to be used for official business and emergencies, but there was no one around to stop him or who'd even know.

Jim hadn't heard from the ambassador after embarking as the Enterprise's official captain. As far as he knew, he was busy on the colony, and he was content to leave Jim and Spock to their own devices. Jim was not fucking content at all, and he felt how derisory that was when Ambassador Spock's weathered and expectant face filled the screen.

"Ambassador, it's good to see you," Jim said, and it was. He had a strange, uncomfortable affection for him, like a distant relative one didn't know very well but had irrefutable ties with. He wasn't used to feeling like that about anyone, even relatives. It was encumbered by a whole tangle of other factors, like the fact that there was another version of the man running simulations three decks away. "You look well." He figured even a Vulcan would appreciate hearing it when they were well into their second century.

Spock inclined his head. "Jim. I presume you have contacted me about my counterpart." He said it not unkindly and without his own Spock's professional detachment. The difference strengthened Jim's resolve; he wanted a little more of that, if he could get it.

"Actually," he started cheerfully, "I wanted to know if I should bet on the Giants, next game. You don't remember who won, do you? I was going to go by the odds, but then I remembered you and the time travel."

"I have never been a fan of baseball," Spock said. "And unfortunately there is a council meeting in ten minutes, so I'm afraid you will have to be brief."

Jim smiled, unbidden. It didn't sound like a line; Spock sounded vaguely regretful he couldn't stay to waste time and precious deep space signal on Jim Kirk's stupid queries. "I'll be quick. I _am_ calling about Spock. I was hoping you could tell me something."

"If I am reasonably able, I will." Subtext: if you're not using me as a tool to snoop like a twelve year old breaking the lock on someone's diary, because it's entirely plausible that you are, then sure.

There wasn't any point in beating around the bush or wasting any more of his time; there was a hole, Jim had already dug it, and putting off jumping in was pointless. "What do you like?"

Spock did not ask for clarification. He tilted his head and regarded Jim thoughtfully. "My interests?"

"Yes. I've been trying to engage you in conversation about absolutely anything and so far I've been impressively unsuccessful." He shrugged a shoulder and let the bemused frustration that had been dogging him show on his face.

"I would caution you not to expect an instantaneous rapport with him, but you are aware of that."

"Right," Jim agreed. "I'm just looking for a way to make boring away missions less boring."

Spock may have smiled. Jim had seen him actually do it before, or the closest to smiling Vulcans could get, but with the distance of light years and months from the greatest tragedy of Spock's life, he was far less easy to read. Whatever that expression was exactly, Jim knew Spock was amused. "I am partial to chess, which will be your most effective avenue. Literature, specifically classics and folklore, is also a subject with which you and he will share affinity. I have some musical aptitude."

That was more than Jim thought he might get, but frustratingly little to go on. Spock liked to read; so did pretty much everybody on the ship, although for some of them it started as a defense mechanism against the sheer amount of required reading at the Academy. "What do you play?"

"The Vulcan lyre and the piano." This time, he was almost obviously amused; the corners of his eyes and lips were softly quirked. "I caution against asking for a demonstration."

"I'll take that under advisement," Jim laughed. Then he pictured doing it and Spock's face and laughed harder. "Thanks for telling me."

"You are welcome, Jim. Is there anything else?"

"No, that was it." Not quite. He smiled and met Spock's eyes on the comm screen. "Although I do wonder why you're so willing to help me out. Isn't giving me pointers messing with fate or, I don't know, jumping the gun?" It wasn't like the other Jim Kirk had his own personal oracle to consult, but he didn't have to deal with a Spock predisposed to be wary of him, a Spock reeling from the near decimation of his race. Jim didn't think it was cheating to find the most effective olive branch, but _his_ Spock would, probably.

"If I did not tell you, your impatience would drive you to much less benign methods of discovery." Jim laughed, only a little unsettled by the accuracy. "It is also harmless information. You could, perhaps, have asked your first officer what his hobbies were."

"I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have told me about the Vulcan lyre," Jim said. He severely doubted Spock would have told him anything at all, but he wasn't about to say that and let Spock get the wrong impression. They had a functional working relationship, and Spock was nothing but polite and tolerant and sometimes seemed interested in what Jim had to say. There was no acrimony, almost no hint that Delta Vega and the Kobayashi Maru had happened at all. "Thank you, again."

Spock held up his hand in the Vulcan farewell; Jim gave it his best attempt. "Live long and prosper, Jim."

"Live long and prosper, Ambassador." He was reaching to deactivate the connection when Spock startled him by speaking again.

"Jim?"

"Yes?"

"Do not bet on the Giants."

Jim grinned and the screen went black. It was on the high of that little moment, the victory of some version of Spock liking him enough to encourage his stupid jokes (although he did place a bet and win several thousand credits; he wasn't about to pass up information _from the future_) that he went and gathered more than just a passing familiarity with chess rules.

Three weeks later, Jim asked Spock to a game, and Spock didn't have a believable reason to turn him down, or maybe the Ambassador had been right to suggest it. In any case, chess was what had brought them here, to Jim calling Spock a friend and Spock occasionally deigning to say his first name.

Jim's utter lack of attention to their game had not gone by Spock. He might not have been aware of his brooding, though, because Jim was pretty subtle about that shit, and at any rate Spock still had trouble identifying a joke when it wasn't prefaced with 'knock knock.' He wasn't worried about any sudden insight. "I appreciate your effort to make concessions to me."

Jim nodded and ran his thumb along the edge of his queen, not meeting Spock's eyes. He would have felt a lot better about the whole thing if he hadn't done it for reasons that had nothing to do with concessions. "I guess I should move now, shouldn't I?"

"Jim, if you are not inclined to continue our game, there are other activities."

Jim's head snapped up. Spock looked back at him, seemingly unperturbed by Jim's weird mood – although to Spock, possibly all of his moods were weird – and waited for Jim's response. "No, uh, it's fine."

Spock kept looking at him. "I have some academic journals that may be of interest. I am also in possession of a Kadis-kot set."

"I – thank you." He was speaking slowly and trying to keep his mouth from hanging open, because fuck if Spock wasn't giving him options for things to do that weren't chess. For them to do _together_; Kadis-kot was a two-player game. He could have just excused himself when Jim started flagging, he'd done it before, but he was still sitting there. There was no excuse for the feeling burning through Jim's chest that made him want to run into sickbay and tell Bones all about it, like he'd even care. "I've never played Kadis-kot." He had no desire to, but Spock had offered to play it with him of his own free fucking will, and Jim was a twelve year old girl when it came to Spock, especially lately.

"Nor have I; I received it as a gift several years ago, but I have never found someone suitable for an opponent. Shall I retrieve it?"

"Sure."

Somehow the night had gone from trying to crack the mystery of Spock's maybe-it-was-maybe-it-wasn't purring, to Jim reveling in the part of him that wanted to fist pump whenever Spock said his first name. When Spock came back with the board and began setting it up, Jim read the scoring instructions aloud for both of them and couldn't stop smiling like an idiot.

\--

Jim wasn't sure at what point he'd begun harboring an embarrassing crush on Spock, but by his last birthday it had become undeniable. Every crew member who recalled enough of Jim's sob story treated him with kid gloves. Jim's crew was sharp and his life had been news fodder since day one, so that meant it was pretty much everyone. Even Uhura, the epitome of polite professionalism except for those rare moments where she seemed to like him totally against her will, was quiet and sensitive. He was unnerved, although sensitivity was by no means the worst thing in the world. It wasn't new, either, although it had always happened on a much smaller scale.

Historically his mom and Sam sent uncharacteristically bland happy birthday messages, remarkable only for what they didn't say. No one ever mentioned his dad and it was all the more glaring for the omission. Bones usually marked the occasion with a surprisingly thoughtful gift and an even more thoughtful bottle of alcohol.

He didn't like to be reminded A) that he was a year older, inching closer to that inevitable day when he could no longer pull off his leather jacket, and B) that his dad died in a blaze of glory that absolutely shattered the Kirks in various depressing ways. Happy fucking birthday, you never knew your father, now have some of this tasty cake.

Spending an entire day while being with everyone's tireless attempts to be sensitive without _seeming_ sensitive, lest they accidentally poke something Jim didn't want poked, left him exhausted and more fed up with the date than ever before. He was so on edge he barely managed to scrape together a smile and a response to Chekov's earnest happy birthday, and he seriously considered cracking open Bones' gift. On shift.

Spock, meanwhile, said nothing. Jim knew he wasn't oblivious; mind like a steel trap notwithstanding, he'd been privy to to a few crew members giving him awkward well-wishes. (Then there was Sulu's presentation of an absolutely foul-smelling cactus, and he was so pleased with his rare botany find Jim couldn't bring himself to gag openly.) Jim just figured Spock just didn't go for birthdays. Celebrating biology didn't seem particularly Vulcan, after all.

He went the whole day noticing but not minding Spock's lack of acknowledgment. Finally the end of his shift came around, and they walked together down the hall to their respective quarters. He could feel himself starting to relax, and all he wanted to do was change out of his uniform, indulge in his shiny new bottle, and pass out uneventfully.

"Night, Spock," he said when they reached his door, though he was perfectly aware that Spock normally toiled the night away running simulations in the lab or catching up on paperwork. Vulcans were like fucking sharks.

"Jim." He turned around, because usually Spock returned his send off with an obligatory one of his own, and this was not that. "I grieve with thee," he said, dark eyes intent and solemn. Stunned, Jim didn't speak, just nodded, and Spock inclined his head before moving on to his own door.

His room was dark, quiet, and Sulu's cactus could be smelled despite the fact that Jim stashed it in the head.

Spock _knew_, the perceptive bastard. Knew all day how crazy Jim was going, and he didn't try to assuage it with useless niceties. He somehow said the only thing Jim could stand to hear, and with utter sincerity.

He had a crush, whatever. He could _do_ anything about it, he was stuck between a rock and -- _nowhere_. He wasn't even in limbo; the boundaries of his relationship with Spock were as clear as they were likely ever going to be. They were a team on the bridge, and Spock humored him in the evenings with chess and Kadis-kot; Jim tentatively called them friends.

Even their games weren't consistent. Jim asked him over again, and Spock turned him down for "discussions with Lieutenant Uhura." Which was like a pin poked in Jim's happy little balloon; it was one thing if Spock had pressing work in the lab, which he often did and cited as a reason to duck out, but Uhura. Jim wouldn't ever take precedence over Uhura, unless it was on the bridge.

He asked the next night and Spock agreed, though, and the little balloon fucking filled up again.

Embarrassing crush. On Spock.

Jim was so screwed.

\--

Bones did not look happy to see him again, and considering recent events, Jim couldn't really blame him. Usually when Jim was annoying he could be brushed off, but the giant chair Jim sat in every day declared him _Captain_, and when you were Captain, no one could ignore you.

"If you're here to get me to run more tests, you can forget about it."

"So quick to judge, Bones."

Bones snorted into his cup of coffee. It must have been an exceptionally hectic shift for him to drink caffeine on duty. Bones enjoyed a cup like everyone else, but he didn't usually partake during shifts. He claimed it made him too jittery. "I'm not running your personal science experiments out of my sickbay, Jim. Don't you have anything better to do? Like not get us killed?"

"Oh, please. The only people we've made contact with in a month," Jim's mental math placed it as two weeks and three days, but semantics, "were on Aja V. Unless the Callax have developed warp technology overnight, there's only the usual chance that we're going to die."

"Thanks, Jim. You've really bolstered my confidence in your leadership skills."

Jim gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder, just this side of too hard. Bones grimaced. "Much as I appreciate your faith in me, I'm not here about Spock."

"Well, at least you aren't turning predictable on me." He set the coffee down and picked up a PADD in its place, scribbling unintelligible notes with his stylus.

"We're due to reach Earth in a few days. I was wondering if you'd be interested in speaking in to Command on behalf of the Ajans. You know, give your medical expertise."

Bones shrugged. "Sure, if you think it'll help. Though if you ask me, a group of traumatized genocide survivors are testimony enough."

"I'm hoping that's true, but 'Fleet's had its hands full since Nero. We don't have a lot of resources to spare, and I have a feeling they're not going to be jumping for joy over the idea of spending more."

"They're not happy unless they can discuss something to death and give themselves a pat on the back for it later."

"Or a medal," Jim agreed. Every minor diplomatic or administrative action seemed like it had to be commemorated. He was uncomfortably reminded of his own medal, tucked away in his quarters.

"I'm telling you now, if Komack starts interrogating the survivors, I'm pulling them out of there." Bones' lips thinned into a frown. "It wouldn't be the first time some asshole badgered a witness."

He was right; it might get ugly. At the end of the day, the worst Jim would get was a dressing-down for sticking his nose in the middle of a civil war and preempting Starfleet's official stance by bringing along the refugees. The Ajans, on the other hand, were going to be cross-examined and dissected before Starfleet would even considering signing off on any real action. More people would die with each day they wasted.

"You -- we should vet them first," Jim said grimly. "And we'll yank them out if someone gets bitchy."

Bones agreed, and they had what passed for a plan. He'd already gone over Spock's report, and the thing was flawless; if any of them could stand up to being studied under a microscope, it was him. It wasn't much of a comfort; he still felt jittery, impatient, going over every possible answer before bed, fully aware of how little control he had, but Jim would take it.

\--

San Fransisco was in the middle of an uncharacteristically hot summer. Jim's dress uniform was sweltering in the best of conditions, and the only relief was the breeze swept in from Horseshoe Bay. He felt unsteady walking, like some old adage about sealegs on land. In his captaincy, Jim had stepped onto the surface of more than a few planets, but something about the gravity of earth – literal and metaphorical – had him off-balance.

They were dismissed while the council deliberated. Jim's hands were shaking, and he was regretting his choice to go outside for some fresh air. Bones was still inside with the refugees. As far as Jim knew they'd never left their planet before the Enterprise had swooped in and carried them away like some sort of mother bird, and the alien experience could only be making a bad day even worse. They'd lived through two rounds of questions, and they'd probably withstood the whole thing better than Jim did.

Diplomacy was not his strong suit.

Spock, on the other hand, didn't so much as blink the entire time. His voice was measured, a monotone broken only by Barnett's questions. And there were many of them; he was the only high-ranked officer on the ground that day, which meant that while they were more than happy railroading Jim, Spock was the only one they could legitimately interrogate about the incident.

He figured twenty minutes outside was long enough. Headquarters was a pristine example of modern architecture -- severe, sterile, and uncomfortable as _hell_, but it was better than waiting outside by himself while passerby stared. Apparently the novelty of being James T Kirk hadn't worn off yet.

Spock was standing just inside the entrance, staring out the glass doors like he'd been watching Jim. His face was impassive, his dress uniform crisp and neat; he looked miles better in it than Jim did in that moment. He'd been pulling at the collar since he put it on that morning.

"Waiting for me?" Jim asked with a false cheer that came out weary.

"Yes," Spock said, turning to match Jim's stride. "Doctor McCoy informed me that the council is nearing the end of their deliberation."

He had to inch himself closer to Spock's side to avoid someone barreling through the hallway without any regard for personal space. They were so close Jim thought he could feel Spock's hand swishing by his side as they walked. Back and forth, tiny little movements.

\--

The glass of water on the table in front of him was on its second refill. Jim wasn't even thirsty; it was something to do.

"I beg your pardon, sirs, but the Callax have made it perfectly clear that they're not interested in negotiating any cease-fires. I think under the circumstances we should consider military action."

Jim and Spock were the only two people in the room standing. Bones and the refugees were seated behind him, and the Starfleet officials were high on a dais, looking down at them like Gods on Olympus. There were only seven of them, or the irony might have killed him.

As Chief of Staff, Barnett had done most of the speaking, and he was good at his job. He made the process seem like an efficient necessity, whereas when Komack opened his mouth it sounded like he was barking. Like a yippy little dog. "We appreciate your input, Captain, and your suggestions have been noted." He glanced down at the table in front of him, frowning. You could have heard a pin drop; as it was Jim heard someone clearing their throat. "We will dispatch the Lexington."

"What?"

Barnett ignored him in favor of whatever was on his personal display. "The refugees are free to return with Captain Wesley if they so desire. He'll depart in two days at 0800." He glanced up and nodded, a clear dismissal, and Jim knew it wasn't personal, but he thought this would have gone down differently if Pike was standing there instead of the jackass prodigy they'd been trying to expel not even two years ago. "That's all." He stood to leave, a busy man with important things to do, things that had nothing to do with Jim Kirk.

Spock hadn't budged, next to him like an obelisk, and Jim wasn't going to budge either. His jaw worked and he tried very hard not to sound as pissed off as he was. "_Begging your pardon_, but I believe the Enterprise should return to Aja V. We established contact with the--"

Barnett stopped where he stood, and Jim thought Spock wore his uniform well, but Barnett made his seem like fucking princely robes. "You and your crew have performed admirably thus far." His voice didn't make it sound like a compliment. "Captain Wesley has diplomatic expertise and will resolve the situation to everyone's satisfaction." The implication that Jim was short on _diplomatic expertise_ was annoyingly accurate considering how badly he wanted vault across the table and slam his fist into someone's face. "The Enterprise has other duties. You're dismissed."

All seven of them shuffled through a side-door, none sparing a glance back.

"Jim." It was Bones. "Come on, we should go talk to Wesley."

"You go," he said, aware that everyone was looking at him and that they all knew he was useless. "I'm going to -- not be here."

\--

He stopped by his room - gratis, either because of who he was or because the 'Fleet picked up the bill for that sort of thing - and changed. The room was nice, open floorplan, fresh flowers in a vase on the little dining table, state of the art media display. The bed was a ridiculously large Queen - or King; it'd been so long since he'd slept in one he couldn't tell the difference.

It was fucking stifling, too perfect.

He left the hotel after stopping by the front desk and parting with a handsome tip to make sure his luggage got back to the ship. Not that it'd be a great loss if it didn't; the dress uniform was stuffed in a duffel bag alongside two paper books, which would be the things he'd actually miss, and whatever else was left from the last time he'd used it.

Jim had _time_, to himself, to waste. More, if he wanted to push back the departure. And he didn't know what to do with it.

Tourism wasn't his thing, and he'd lived in San Francisco for two years even if it was. Most everyone he'd known at the Academy was dead thanks to Nero or stationed on a ship, and Jim might have been popular, but _they_ knew _him_, not the other way around. And Bones -- Bones was usually at his elbow, but he had things to do; the Ajans, seeing them off to Captain Wesley, and Jim refused to feel guilty for leaving him with the responsibility. All would go well, and Bones might even brave his irrational hatred of transporters long enough to go see his kid for a few hours.

Jim wasn't good company, anyway.

There was a bar he used to go to, and it was kind of a shithole, especially considering how close it was to the bay. Very few students knew about it or maybe they didn't care; there were plenty of trendy places with pretty people closer to the dorms. Jim wasn't in the mood for trendy or pretty. If he wanted to get laid, he was loath to expend the effort in a place like that, and he didn't, particularly. He wanted to have a drink by himself and glory in how pitiable that was. The fishermen and industrial workers would leave him well enough alone.

Or they did before he was Captain Kirk. He'd already had one beer sent over, and he had to wave off two more with a smile. Aldebaran whiskey didn't mix well with anything else.

It was dim inside, and the main source of light came from the street, the dying rays of the sun. It was sunset, pink and gold, and that was the cue for more people to start pouring into the bar. The cramped space made it that much more obvious that he was sitting alone. Drinking alone.

It seemed like a better idea than it was. He paid his tab and left.

Back in Iowa, he'd driven home so drunk he could barely keep the bike in a straight line. This buzz was nothing compared to that idiocy, but the night was nice, the temperatures cool and unpredictable, not the recycled and strictly controlled air on the Enterprise. He decided to walk back to the shuttle transport, hands tucked into the pockets of his much-neglected leather jacket.

\--

The Enterprise was a ghost ship, manned by skeleton personnel, and no one spared him a double-take in his civilian clothes. He felt like he was taking off a costume once he slipped his jacket off, which was sobering in the worst way. His Starfleet issued sleep pants were a relief.

He had reams of reports to catch up with, so he put on a holovid for white noise and got to work. It was useless; he'd signed off on all of the important stuff already, rosters and requests, but this would keep the bureaucrats warm at night. For a while.

His eyes were starting to sting when the comm officer filling in for Uhura chirped at him. "Captain, Starfleet Command on the line."

"Patch it through to my quarters, thank you, audio only." They already thought he was an inexperienced moron, flashing his chest wouldn't improve anyone's opinion.

There was a muffled sound, the signal being transferred, and Pike's voice filled the space like he was right there, next to Jim. "I can't believe you didn't come to see me."

"Oh, shit." He dropped his stylus guiltily. "I--"

"McCoy came by and saw me. _McCoy_, Jim. He brought me a plant."

Jim rubbed at his eyes, sighing. "I'm so--"

"And then Spock came after he was gone. Lucky for me Vulcans find gift-giving illogical in these sorts of situations." Jim wouldn't say he had a great relationship with Pike, or an overly-familiar one, but he knew enough to recognize that if Pike was truly angry he wouldn't have bothered to contact Jim at all. That, and he sounded like he was biting the side of his cheek to keep from laughing. "But you? You didn't even get me a _card_."

He pinched the bridge of his nose so tightly he heard something pop. "I'll get you a pony if you stop guilting me."

"What would I do with a pony, Jim?" Jim froze and instantly wanted someone to materialize and punch him in the face for being an imbecilic asshole. He _knew_ he was off his game, because he didn't forget things unless he actively tried to – literally, his stupid eidetic memory _wouldn't_ let him –  
or there was alcohol involved. "No deal." Pike's voice mellowed to the soothing tone he used during commencement ceremonies and rare press interviews. "I heard about the meeting. I'm sorry. They really shafted you."

"Yeah." He knew Bones, and the two of them most likely knocked their heads together trying to figure out a solution, and when they couldn't, they had a little pity party together, feeling sorry for Jim Kirk. He wasn't sure whether to feel flattered or sullen. "To be fair, it probably wasn't as bad as Bones made it seem. They didn't demote me or anything."

"McCoy just said something I can't repeat over an open channel, and that it's Wesley's problem now. Spock filled me in on the gritty details."

Jim's eyebrows went up. "Spock, huh?"

"Yes, Spock," Pike said wryly. "He thought I might be able to run interference with Barnett. He was pretty adamant." There was a pause. "For Spock. He left after he found out I have no strings to pull." His tone turned so dry you could call it vermouth. "He didn't even say goodbye."

"Really."

"Really. You're allowed to give him flak for that, by the way."

Jim was extremely busy picturing Spock confronting Pike about the decision, but he reined himself in to say, "I'll be sure to do that. It'll go swimmingly."

"Oh, I can just imagine. You two are getting along, I take it?"

"Yes," Jim said, cautiously.

"I figured. I haven't seen Spock that worked up since..." Jim could almost _see_ Pike tilting his head. "Well. Since he encountered you, actually."

"Are you – is this you gossiping?" Jim asked with dawning horror. "Did you seriously call me up like somebody's mother to talk about Spock?"

He was extremely lucky Pike had a sense of humor and wasn't technically Jim's commanding officer anymore. "I called you up to tell you that your Vulcan first officer was championing your honor," Pike said, clearly seconds from laughter. "And that you're being sent on a milk run as punishment."

"That's – not the worst thing that could have happened. What do you mean Spock –"

"I thought you said you didn't want to gossip."

Jim pressed his lips together before something stupid could fall out, and he gave himself a moment before he opened them again. "What's the milk run?"

"Ferrying diplomats," Pike informed him cheerfully.

Jim kept listening, but most of his concentration was spent mentally dressing Spock in a suit of armor, facing down their enemies.

\--

"Computer," he said. "Is Commander Spock on the ship?"

"Commander Spock," it said in its briskly soothing tones, "is located in his quarters. Deck five, room three-F one twenty."

Of _course_ Spock was back on the Enterprise and holed up in his rooms. Enjoying a rare day off on a familiar planet just wasn't boring enough for him. Jim finished straightening his shirt and stepped into the corridor. It was a short trip; their rooms were side by side.

"Enter."

Spock wasn't in his uniform either. He was seated at his desk, looking austere in a gray shirt that looked distinctly Vulcan. "Yes, Captain?"

"Off-duty," Jim reminded him, mostly to cover how suddenly uncomfortable he was. "I. I just spoke to Pike."

Spock, who was already sitting up straight, pulled himself up even higher in his chair and dropped his hands to his lap. "I see."

"He says hello, by the way. He –" It was on the tip of his tongue to make it a joke like Pike had, Spock's strange and unnecessary defense of him, but he looked so stoic and Spocklike that Jim had trouble believing it happened at all. "He says we're basically free and clear. They're making us errand boys until we've been appropriately chastened for whatever it was we did to piss them off."

"Doctor McCoy shared his theory that bringing the refugees," he hesitated, likely turning Bones' speak into something less colloquial, "garners the sympathies of the public and reflects poorly on Starfleet's decision to remain passive."

Jim shrugged. "Pretty much. I didn't exactly follow the rulebook."

"One would be hard-pressed to find a suitable alternative."

"Well," Jim said, "now it's Wesley's problem. Lucky him."

"Indeed."

Jim licked his lips, feeling like he was made of nervous tics. "He said you spoke to him about Barnett's decision. Thank you." His voice weakened so it turned into an entirely unconvincing question, but at least he got it out at all.

Spock's expression didn't dramatically change, but it was as though Jim was suddenly looking at a painting, a bland, two-dimensional imitation of something real. "I was unsuccessful."

"Yeah, I know, but. Thank you for trying."

"It is of no consequence. As you said, it is now Wesley's responsibility."

Spock was either embarrassed or pissed at Pike for cluing Jim in, and Jim had no desire to deal with a potentially pissed off Spock ever again, so he backed off. "Right. Anyway, I thought you should know, we're departing for Grazer tomorrow." He nodded to himself and got ready to leave, but Spock was looking at him unflinchingly, which usually meant something was going to happen that he should stick around for.

"Jim. The council's decision was erroneous. Your actions were admirable."

It was like Spock knew exactly how and when to inflate Jim's impossibly hopeless balloon. "I wasn't the one on the ground, Spock. You were. I'm not the one you should be reassuring."

He got out of there before his mouth decided to start speaking of its own accord, spilling stupid consolations and getting emotional on him.  
–

 

Jim went a whole week trying to be a good person. He ignored the niggling voice in his head that rambled about Spock's Vulcan weirdness, and _that_ would be something to do other than avoiding the Grazerite ambassador's rude curiosity. Scotty wouldn't let him down in Engineering unless he was there as ship's captain, and supposedly captains didn't get their hands dirty. Jim knew it was bullshit; Scotty was like the Enterprise's protective boyfriend, and it amused him just enough to let it slide.

He spent quite a bit of his off-duty time bothering Spock, and he figured it was now or never; either he'd make actual progress or he'd get nowhere doing nothing and it would bother him to the grave. Or at least until something else Jim couldn't figure out without a formula came along.

Spock was in Jim's quarters.

Also in his quarters was a small leather pouch deliberately placed on top of his desk.

"Can you hand me the data chips? They're on my desk." He waved a hand vaguely, staring down at the data on his lap. The pretense of being too busy to do it himself wasn't far from the truth; he had pages of data on Grazer, and he had to gain more than a passing familiarity with it all before they reached the planet. And Jim could boot the ambassador off of his fucking ship.

Spock quietly went to collect the chips. The pouch was on top of them, looking innocuous. He held it as if it were a cockroach between his index and thumb. "What is this?"

"Oh, that's for Ensign Fisher in Engineering. For her cat." Jim tried to look casual.

"I see." Spock extended his arm to put it back, but changed his mind halfway there. He stood staring at it, and Jim bit his lip. Hard. "If I may ask, what is contained in this satchel?"

Jim abandoned the pretense of the data in favor of studying Spock, who didn't seem to notice; he was still staring at the pouch, bringing it closer to his face by infinitesimal amounts. "Nepeta cataria." He went to stand next to Spock, who surprisingly enough didn't look as though he'd been enlightened. "Catnip." Jim knew Vulcans didn't domesticate cats, but the odds of Spock never having heard about catnip by its common name were slim. "It's pretty standard in cat toys."

"Ah." Spock's brows drew together ever so slightly, and if Jim hadn't been standing so close and paying such close attention, he wouldn't have noticed. "It is curious. Vulcans are adverse to touching leather, but I –" Seeming to think better of what he was going to say, he abruptly set the pouch down on the table.

Jim stepped back to give Spock some space. Spock's reaction wasn't solid proof of anything, but it was... something. He picked up the pouch for himself and pretended like nothing had happened, which he was pretty good at as a general skill. "Chess tonight?" he asked brightly.

"I'm afraid not. I will be running simulations with Mr Scott until 1300." Jim wondered if Scotty let _Spock_ fiddle with any of the moving parts, so to speak, but he doubted it.

"Too bad. I've been practicing. I was looking forward to kicking your ass."

"Indeed."

"Hey, if you're headed to Engineering, would you bring Fisher the pouch?"

It was a superfluous task, and Spock would be within his rights to question why Jim wanted him to handle it on duty, but he didn't. Jim had been counting on that; Spock only seemed to ask questions when Jim would be most annoyed by it.

He did, however, hesitate ever so slightly before inclining his head. Jim gave him a small smile and turned away, gathering up his PADD and a book for the night's reading his mom had sent him from Earth. Hard-bound literature got him to sleep like nothing else. Maybe something in the paper.

"I'll see you next shift, Spock," Jim said, when he heard Spock head for the door.

\--

"Spock?"

Jim hesitated at the threshold. The room was dimmed, smoky. Spock was kneeling on the floor, an eerie facsimile of those weeks ago, when the gears in Jim's brain started turning. His throat tightened in some strange anticipation.

"I don't – we're getting a bunch of jacked readings, I need you to..."

Nothing. All over again.

Jim's fingers settled feather-light against the knob of Spock's wrist. He waited, but Spock didn't stir. Emboldened, he swept his fingers further down, pressing them harder against the skin, until he was cupping the whole of the wrist. Touching him last time had worked, and Jim truly needed him to wake --

Spock's arm wrenched away in one swift and furious motion, and if Jim had been holding on tighter, it would have fucking _hurt_. "_Desist_," Spock hissed. He thrummed with energy, like he'd been alert the whole time.

Jim froze with his hand in mid-air where Spock had flung it. After a moment, when Spock made no other move or sound, he curled it into a fist and dropped it back down to rest on his thigh. "Sorry," he said quietly. Truthfully, Spock's sudden and almost violent reaction had jumped Jim's heart like an engine; he could hear his pulse pounding in his ears.

In one instant, Spock was composed again. His eyes were narrowed and tense, but his mouth had smoothed into a flat line. If Jim hadn't seen him go from zero to warp five in the few seconds Jim had been touching him, well. He would've been crazy to think something was painfully, obviously wrong.

He swallowed around a dry throat. "Sorry," he tried again. "The touching thing, I – forget."

Not strictly true. Not at _all_ true, but there was a chance Spock would either miss the lie or feel obliged to let it pass without comment.

"You will remove yourself from my quarters, Captain, unless I am needed on duty."

"Right, of course." He pushed up from his crouch. His calves were shaky, less from exertion than nerves. Spock didn't stand or look at him, and Jim took it as a small mercy. "We do. Uh. You're needed on duty. We've been getting abnormal scans." The door was a scant few steps away; Jim sometimes forgot how limited space was, and winced to think of what Ensigns had to deal with. The doors swished open, and Jim stopped. It didn't feel right to skulk away in shame, to leave the white elephant behind in the room. "I'm sorry."

Silence.

\--


End file.
